A Tale Before Time

The Island That Fell From The Sky

October 3rd (I think), 1492, somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

We have been at sea for weeks, and haven't seen land since we left the Cape of Africa, some weeks ago. Miguel says we should've arrived days ago. I keep wondering if we've just missed it, sailed past without realising, and are now adrift on the vast open ocean to God knows where.

Two have died on the Pinta so far, and half of the crew suffers from scurvy. Diego's teeth have started loosening. Mine, blessedly, are still firmly attached, but my bones ache something fierce.

We are hungry, the rations shrinking daily, as there are little fish and seabirds this far out. I no longer dare stealing off my master's plate before I bring it to him. My master grumbles that he will not be able to distill a pure essence of atál, with the last concave vial broken in last night's storm. I just hope the weight of all the equipment won't sink us before we even reach our destination. This creaky boat is older than any man who sails on it, even old Juan. I am running out of ink.

Pedro closed his journal and stuffed it safely under his bunk with his last pen. The tip was wearing, but there were no more geese to be slaughtered. His stomach grumbled involuntarily at the thought of geese. He clambered out to the deck, salt wind pulling at his tangled hair. He'd given up combing weeks ago.

The sea was a shade of blue that didn't exist at home, a cerulean brighter than the sapphires his master transmutated. Ahead of them sailed the Santa María, the largest of their expedition, but no less old or creaky. And next to them, the Niña, the newest of the three, but still a third-hand acquisition. Despite their matching new sails of splendid white adorned with a red cross, their ships seemed barely fit to sail the Mediterranean, let alone the open ocean. Clearly, no one expected them to return.

The restless crew managed the ropes, worked on repairs after the storm and played dice, one eye always on the horizon. Master Luís and Captain Pinzón were nowhere to be seen, presumably locked themselves in the captain's cabin, bent over maps and calculations. High up in the rigging, just below the Castilian flag, was Miguel, legs dangling over the highest beam, golden hair whipping around his head. He grinned down at the deck and waved.

Tentatively, Pedro put his feet in the rope ladder they called the shroud, and then on the ratlines. He didn't dare look down, and with every step up, the sway of the ship and brutal wind intensified. Clinging to the mainmast, he inched up the ship at an excruciatingly slow pace, with every single sailor on deck suddenly more interested in the rigging than their dice. Miguel had shown him countless times, but he simply had the agility of a beached jellyfish.

Miguel pulled him up for the final bit, and secured him tightly between himself and the mast, rolling his eyes. "You're such a chicken."

"I am a scholar," said Pedro, his eyes screwed shut as he clutched the violently swinging mast. "An alchemist. Not a monkey."

"You'll only get more sick if you don't open your eyes, you know that."

"I know."

"Do you think we'll find it? Tivín?"

"I'll be glad if we find land at all, at this point," said Pedro.

"It all sounds like chasing fairy tales to me, you know. Some rocks of the stuff fall down in the Indies and all you clever men decide there must be a whole island of it out there."

Despite the lurch in his stomach every time he glanced down, he had come to appreciate the sight, Miguel's arm firmly behind him for support, with the white sail swelling beneath them, blue ocean as far as the eye could see, clouds drifting in the sky.